


Smoke and Feathers

by Wiz_is_bored



Category: Firebringer - Team StarKid, Hatchetfield Universe - Team StarKid
Genre: F/F, F/M, Light Angst, all of the firebringer characters are dead but its not explicit, established paulkins, ghost au, ghost lore that i make up as i go along, i Do Not See the chorn twist, i am looking AWAY, i just want to make zaz and emma interact thats really the only reason this exists, no beta we die like zazzalil does in the third paragraph, once again zazzalil has a flame tattoo and a pet wolf and it is in no way plot relevant this time, please tell me if you think i should, so i decided not to use 'major character death', zaz and jemilla had an adopted son
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-10
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:35:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28000254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wiz_is_bored/pseuds/Wiz_is_bored
Summary: Hatchetfield has always been a weird place full of weird people, since the dawn of time. And sometimes those people stick around. Emma just wanted to give her partner a taste of backpacking in the local witchwood; she didn't mean to bring a wandering fire spirit home with her.
Relationships: Jemilla/Zazzalil (Firebringer), Paul Matthews/Emma Perkins, emma perkins & zazzalil
Comments: 27
Kudos: 40





	1. The Firebringer

**Author's Note:**

> whatup its arran back at it again with the fourth ongoing fic. This was originally a parody of the BBC show Ghosts but then i realised i just want zazzalil and emma to be pals. Also the chorn twist did not happen because i have beef with it and also it would ruin a lot of this story.

Irony can be a cruel, twisted bitch.

You’d think, after a life spent pushing the bounds of what humanity settled for, Zazzalil the Firebringer would eventually be finished by one of her so-called Bright Ideas. Perhaps trampled by the wildebeest she took to hunting on the plains, or mauled by the orphaned wolf pups she brought back to the village. Cut open by a spear. Choked by smoke.

There’s a sort of pathetic irony in the fact that she slipped on a stone while wading across a shallow stream and broke her neck.

Someone must have found her body, because she wakes up lying in the ashes of her own funeral pyre. For a while she stays there, listening to the wind rustling the leaves, staring past the treetops at the stars. The concept of mourning herself is a strange one, but it weighs heavy in her chest all the same. She doesn’t have time to wonder whether spirits can cry - the answer is presented to her almost immediately. Yes. Yes, they can. She doesn’t move because she  _ can’t  _ move, because the thoughts have turned her limbs to stone. So many sparks of ideas that will never come to be anything more. Songs that will never be sung. A wife, son, wolf, and tribe left behind.

It’s the thought of her family that forces her to sit up. Maybe she’ll never talk to them again - the realisation is painful - but she’ll be able to see them, won’t she? The souls of elders watch over their tribes, they guide their descendants. That’s what she’d always been told and always believed. So she forces herself to her feet. She’s a spirit now, she has spiritual responsibilities to attend to.

But almost immediately she pauses, struck with a sudden curiosity. What do spirits look like?

She can barely see herself in the pale moonlight, holding her arms up to try and catch a glimpse. Thick smoke fills the space where her hands used to be, lazily swirling through her fingers. The freckles that used to cover her body have been replaced with floating specks of charcoal. If she squints, she can just about make out the burn scar on her left palm, now made up of twisting wisps of smoke. It’s transfixing to watch. But she can’t spend forever staring at her arms.  _ Spiritual responsibilities,  _ she reminds herself, but not without the thought that still having a job while she’s dead is absolute bullshit.

Some supernatural instinct makes her glance down at the ashes before she leaves. One particular charred branch catches her eye, still glowing slightly in places. She recognises it immediately. Scorched twine is somehow still holding the spearhead in place, the feathers hanging from the joint are only partially burnt away, and the fur handle, though thoroughly singed, is still there. She’s scared that her fingers will pass straight through it, but to her relief her smoky hand grips the spear with no issue. The ash and twigs shift and snap under her feet as she makes her way to the edge of the pyre’s remains. And when she steps off it, she immediately puts her foot right through a stone.

The spirit stares down at it for a moment, then crouches down to grasp at it. The smoke flows over its surface, unable to penetrate or grip it. Her fingers go numb as they disperse around the rock, her freckles still floating lazily over the back of her hand, and the digits reform as soon as she pulls her arm back. The phenomenon puzzles her; she can grab a handful of ash just fine, but the pebble eludes her. Same with the unburnt twigs and leaves. Sighing, she gets to her feet and tucks her spear into the back of her belt. She’s not a part of the physical world anymore, not really. She’s dead.

That weight settles in her chest again. She’ll never kiss her wife or hug her son or pet her wolf or dance with her best friend again. Fuck, it  _ hurts. _

It hurts so much that she could scream.

So she does.

She throws her head and yells into the wind, howling out the thoughts crowding her mind. But as loud as she screams, the birds perched in the trees surrounding her are unphased. The sound feels hollow without them shrieking in return.

Chest rising and falling with useless deep breaths, she tries to return herself to the task at hand. Spiritual responsibilities. Her arms wrap around her waist as she takes in the shapes of the trees.  _ Fairly  _ sure that she knows where she is, she sets off towards home.

* * *

Home, it seems, is a lot further away than she remembers. After a while she pulls the spear from her back and slings it across her shoulders, just to give her arms something new to do. Her footsteps make no sound as she trudges through the darkness. It’s surprisingly warm for midnight, though she suspects being made of smoke has something to do with that.

As the spirit trudges through the forest she’s becoming less and less certain of where she is, the trees taking unfamiliar shapes around her. How long has it been? Hours? It can’t have been longer, or the sun would have risen. It can’t have been that long at all; the moon is still directly overhead... Though she seems to be slowly shifting through her phases when Zazzalil’s not looking. The stars move across the sky, and she still doesn’t know why.

When something finally changes she almost doesn’t notice. But she catches it out of the corner of her eye - an unlit campfire. Usually a pile of dry leaves and twigs wouldn’t be anything special, but after wandering the forest alone for so long anything new is a source of interest. She swings her spear off her shoulder and her gait picks up in speed, her smoke swirling faster as she bounds over to it. There’s nobody around who might have built it; she hasn’t seen another soul since she left the village the day she died.

She can’t say why she spends so long staring down at the abandoned campfire. Something seems… off. Shifting her grip on her spear, she gives the kindling a tentative poke.

A small wisp of smoke rises from the tip of the spearhead and disappears into the night. She cocks her head to the side and pokes it again, and another wisp of smoke floats away. Crouching down, she confirms that the campfire is unlit. No embers. She stands again, taking her spear in both hands.

When she plunges the charred weapon into the pile of twigs, tongues of bright orange flame spring into life with a ferocity that makes her step back.

“Woah,” she mutters to herself as she stares down at the burning sticks. “Spirit powers.”

She looks up from the fire and catches sight of a face. Well, not really a face. It’s more like the firelight  _ on  _ a face. The highlights over their nose and cheeks, the shine in their eyes. It’s not a face she recognises. Taking a step back from the invisible person sat by the campfire, she tucks her spear back into her belt. She’s not sure if she’s shaking or if it’s just the swirling of her smoke, but either way there’s a hollow feeling in her chest and a quickening of her useless breath. The dead woman grits her teeth.  _ Spiritual responsibilities,  _ she reminds herself once again.  _ Spiritual responsibilities. I need to get home. _

And she turns tail and runs.

* * *

The stars aren’t just moving across the sky, they’re changing. The constellations aren’t the same as when she woke on the pyre. Zazzalil doubts she could pick out three of them now. It seems like every time she looks away the moon goes from waxing to waning and back again, time marching onwards in one unending night, swallowing one unending forest.

She’s lost count of the fires she’s lit, the strange faces that she’s passed. She barely breaks her stride to jab at the twigs with her spear, trudging onwards towards a home that she’s not even sure is there anymore. She still has responsibilities, she’s certain of that, but it’s beginning to seem like those responsibilities don’t lie with her tribe. Seems like they lie with whatever random bastard happens to be trying to light a campfire in these godforsaken woods. She still screams about it sometimes. Smoke doesn’t tire, but she’s still exhausted.

Millennia pass without her knowledge.

* * *

The moon is full, for now. Zazzalil wipes at her eyes as she trudges through the forest; she’s been thinking about her son again. After however long she’s been in this place, she can still drive herself to tears just by thinking about the wrong things. Being a spirit is  _ bullshit. _ By the time she reaches her next campfire she’s drained.

The spearhead lands in the pile of twigs with more force than she intended, the half-visible figure now beside it starting back a little as it bursts into flame. The smoke whips through Zazzalil’s arms as if stirred by a gale. She pauses. Though her breath is useless, filling her lungs still helps to quell the anger sometimes; letting her rage get the better of her isn’t a good idea when she’s in possession of a fire-starting weapon and surrounded by highly flammable trees.

Taking a moment to attempt to calm herself down, Zazzalil lets her eyes fall onto the person by the campfire. From what she can make out, they’re looking over their shoulder at something, gesturing and nodding their head as if holding a conversation. The spirit is intrigued now. She steps around the fire, past the figure, and stares out into the forest. There’s nobody there, just like always. As always, she’s completely alone.

With a defeated sigh, she looks back at the figure. Not  _ completely  _ alone, she reasons, even if this person appears to be inhabiting an entirely different plane of reality. She glances back out into the night. The path onwards is dark and lonely. Pretending for a while couldn’t hurt, could it?

Zazzalil takes a seat opposite the figure, her spear across her lap.

“We’ve still got a few hours of daylight left, there’s no use getting stressed about it.”

The spirit almost falls over backwards. She hasn’t heard someone else’s voice for what feels like an eternity.

“Come take a break,” the voice continues, “and later we’ll try and figure it out together.”

Barely over the shock of hearing the first figure speak, Zazzalil can only watch in dumbfounded silence as a second carefully sits down beside them. “I knew we should have done a trial run,” they mumble.

“Done a trial run where?” the first laughs. “In my apartment?”

“We could have at least read through the instructions.” They pull the first figure into a half-hug, letting the smaller one lean against them. “But you insisted you knew what you were doing.”

“I  _ do  _ know what I’m doing, thanks.”

“‘Course you do.” It’s said with a smile. Even with her limited view of the person’s face, Zazzalil can see the softness in their expression. She’s hit with a pang of longing for Jemilla.

The two sit in silence for a few moments, watching the flames dance as Zazzalil attempts to wrap her head around what she just heard. These people still have daylight? What the fuck is an apartment?

And then the smaller figure looks up. Their eyes meet. Both freeze.

“You okay?” The taller figure gently squeezes their companion’s arm. They blink hard, shaking their head.

“Yeah. Thought I saw someone on the other side of the fire for a second. Trick of the light.”

Scrambling around the campfire, Zazzalil sits herself beside the figures instead. Something feels wrong about them seeing her. When the figure takes another look they're met only with the unending expanse of the forest.

“Okay. D’you think we should get dinner started?”

“Yeah, hang on.”

The smaller figure reaches behind them and retrieves what Zaz can only assume is a large pack, quickly setting up a frame over the campfire to hang a pot from.

“Don’t you have a camping stove with you?”

“Yeah, but that’s the backup. This is more fun.”

“Sure.”

The smaller figure looks up, now practically sat on the other’s lap. “You know, you can tell me if you’re not enjoying yourself, Beanpole. I’m not gonna be offended.”

“No, no, I’m having fun.” They rest their chin on the other’s head. “Not quite at the level where I get why you spent twelve years doing this, but I’m enjoying myself.”

Zazzalil watches the pair go about filling the pot with something from the pack. As the taller figure begins to stir it the shorter pulls out something else, stabbing a stick into something and passing it to the other.

“Already?”

“Yeah, why not?” They stab another something as they speak. “We’ll just have a couple now, and then we’ll tackle the tent, and by the time we’re done the food’ll be ready.”

“Okay. Sounds like a plan.” It’s said with that same soft smile.

Both hold their sticks over the flames. Cooking something, presumably. The spirit listens as they chat about how the taller one hasn’t done this since they were a kid and the shorter one hasn’t since they left Guatemala. But she doesn’t get the chance to wonder what a ‘Guatemala’ is. The moment the shorter figure takes a bite from whatever it is they were cooking, her eyelids begin to feel heavy for the first time since the stone age. She’d be shocked if her mind wasn’t rapidly fogging up. As it is, it’s a relief; as drained as she’s been throughout this whole ordeal, she’s always been painfully, inescapably awake.

The campfire crackles. The two firelit figures laugh quietly at some unheard joke. And the Firebringer lays down to sleep.

She wakes up to a clear blue sky above the ancient trees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading! :)


	2. Daylight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zazzalil decides to stick with Paul and Emma and gets her first glimpse of the 21st century

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> added ‘light angst’ to the tags. I’ve made a timeline to help me write this, im saying the events of Firebringer took place over 1 year because of how much shit apparently went down in the interval (jemillas kids were adopted), and have decided to completely ignore the fact that tiblyn said she was holding up the sky for 27 years; once again i Do Not see it i am Looking Away

Zazzalil doesn’t leave the camp until the two people that made it do - she doesn’t have any reason to. Where would she go? It’s becoming increasingly obvious that she’s been wandering the forest for a long,  _ long  _ time. Long enough that home isn’t there anymore.

Under the clear blue sky, the spirit can get a much better look at the two figures that were sat by the fire last night. The smaller one is a woman; seemingly the leader of this tiny tribe. Or at least she’s the one who knows what she’s doing. The taller is a man who appears to be a lot less sure of himself, looking to his companion for guidance. But the woman is patient with him, if a little snarky. They laugh together. They share those tender looks that make Zazzalil long for home.

After a while she’s able to discern their names; Emma and Paul. She’s never heard anything like those names before. And that’s not the only odd thing about them. Their clothes encase their arms and legs and feet, and the edges are far cleaner than her roughly-made dress. Their hut, pack and garments are all unusually colourful; It must have taken them a long time to dye all that fabric, or perhaps gather or hunt enough to trade for it. They talk about strange things - apartments, offices, coffee. At times it almost seems like they’re speaking another language. But the spirit has been deprived of the sound of human conversation for eons, so she tries to follow.

“You know, the Witchwood is supposed to be haunted,” Paul comments as they dismantle their hut. From what Zazzalil can tell it was pretty flimsy - perhaps intended to be temporary, perhaps just shoddily made.

“Bit late for campfire stories now, Beanpole,” Emma jibes. The man huffs out a quiet laugh.

“Why is it that people are only ever worried about ghosts at night?” he comments. “Do they think that dying makes you nocturnal?”

That gets Zaz’s attention. Is he talking about spirits?

“Maybe they’re confusing them with vampires,” Emma suggests. “You know, no direct sunlight?”

“Do you have to store them in a cool, dry place too?”

Apparently this is funny to the Witchwood’s living occupants, leaving the dead baffled; humour sure has changed since the ‘it’s on the floor’ joke. The pair keep up their discussion of the proper storage instructions for ghosts as they roll up the fabric from the hut and strap it to their packs. It’s a good thing they have the bit to keep them amused - it takes them a fair few attempts to force the sheet into its bag. They’re hauling on their packs when the ghost idea is brought back to some  _ semblance _ of seriousness.

“Well, you know what they say, nobody _ really  _ leaves Hatchetfield.”

Paul voices it in an almost teasing way, with a half-smile that won’t let Zazzalil think he believes his own words. But despite this and not knowing what ‘Hatchetfield’ is, she can’t help but be intrigued.

“Not even in death.”

Emma rolls her eyes as she folds up what she was looking at - Zaz’s first instinct is to say it’s patterned fabric, but it seems stiffer - and shoves it into a side pocket on her companion’s pack. “You don’t have to tell me about that. It’s all I heard when I came back.”

The two begin to walk, and the spirit follows almost without thinking. They’re the only people she’s seen for literal ages, she can’t just let them wander away from her. And with that talk of being stuck in one place even in death… Maybe they know why she never made it home.

“‘Knew you’d be back, you can’t stay away from Hatchetfield!’ ‘Wow, nobody ever really leaves do they?’ ‘Told you you’d come back, everyone does!’ It got annoying.”

“Who was saying all that?”

Emma shrugs. “You know, people. Small town, people talk.”

Her companion nods his understanding. The pair slip into silence, but a comfortable one. The kind of silence only shared between people who can appreciate the simplicity of each other’s presence. Something else that Zaz missed in her years imprisoned by the night.

Even in daylight, the birds don’t respond to her voice. Paul and Emma are unphased by her throwing back her head and howling. Because, once again, she’s trudging through the forest with an unbearable weight in her chest. She’s sure now that everything she used to know is long since gone and forgotten. And it hurts all over again. All she has to keep her walking, to keep her from laying down and never getting back up, is two people she can’t claim to know. Two people who appear entirely unaware of her existence. Her only companions.

* * *

The trio walk for most of the day. That comfortable silence isn’t entirely abandoned, but it’s punctuated by conversations, by Emma pointing out different plantlife to Paul, by them listening to each other ramble. Occasionally they stop to rest and share snacks and jokes. Zazzalil can’t help being a little jealous. The spirit stays a few strides back from the living, watching the couple from a distance. It feels rude to eavesdrop on their conversation, though she can’t exactly help it. She can’t risk losing sight of them and being abandoned, left alone in the endless trees all over again.

But in the late afternoon, Zazzalil finds herself distracted from the travellers’ words by a new sound. A sort of rumbling, roaring noise that she can only associate with some sort of large animal - after all, she has no idea what cars are. It appears to be getting louder, closer. Though the fact concerns her, Paul and Emma seem unphased. She has to trust that they know what they’re doing. And if they don’t, well, maybe they’ll be joining her on whatever cursed plane of existence she’s trapped in. Maybe that’s why she found them.

* * *

Nothing could have prepared Zazzalil for what Paul and Emma lead her into. The huge, solid structures, the rough stony ground, the brightly-coloured creatures that growl and prowl unchecked and unacknowledged around the settlement. Everything is big and hard and unnatural-looking, like the tribe here has reshaped the earth itself. She almost turns tail to run back to the familiarity and comforting messiness of the trees.

_ Almost. _

Paul and Emma seem unphased by the landscape and its wildlife, and she’s trusted them to lead her this far. She’s already dead, she has to remind herself - what’s the worst that could happen? So, gripping her smoldering spear with all the strength that smoke can give, she follows them into their tribe’s home.

  
A short walk, a  _ terrifying  _ ride in a lift, and a whole lot of stress later, Zazzalil is able to find herself a small wooden structure to hide under while she tries to wrap her head around it all. And Emma Perkins, unbeknownst to her, gains herself a freshly haunted apartment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ive decided that im going to be using one or two characters from nightmare time episode 3 later in this story, so apologies if you haven’t seen it.
> 
> thanks for reading :)


	3. in which zazzalil figures out cars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> zaz takes some time to investigate her surroundings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> technology is witchcraft you heard it here first folks

Zazzalil stays in place as Paul and Emma take off their packs and sit down, talking quietly amongst themselves as the spirit has a panic under the kitchen table. Everything in this strangely neatly-shaped cave is new and confusing and overwhelming, and she doesn’t even have a hint as to where or  _ when  _ she is. But eventually she’s drawn out of her existential questions and repeated ‘fuck you’s to the Wichwood by curiosity. Because, out of nowhere, there’s a third voice in the room. Thoroughly confused as well as intrigued, she climbs out from under the structure and onto its surface to get a better look.

Paul and Emma, sat together on another structure - a much softer-looking one - are watching another, smaller human that has somehow appeared in the corner. A child? She bounds over to investigate, but quickly finds that this small person is just a flat image on a tablet. A painting. But a  _ moving  _ painting. An incredibly lifelike painting, too.

It feels strangely smooth when she lays a hand on it, though she guesses that’s part of whatever spellcraft is animating the image. She glances back over her shoulder at Paul and Emma. They both seem half-asleep; apparently such paintings are commonplace now. She decides to leave the couple to their tablet.

When investigating the cave further the spirit quickly finds another point of interest; a neat square hole in the wall. Or… not a hole? Because when she tries to put her hand through it it hits some surface she didn’t notice, the smoke dispersing and flattening out against it. She quickly retracts the limb, still not quite used to her body not being solid. When she touches it again she’s careful not to push too hard, and is able to rest her palm on whatever it is. Ice? It doesn’t feel cold enough to be ice, though that might just be because of the smoke. She runs her hand down the smooth surface, coming to a piece of wood at the bottom.

There’s a gap between the wood and the bottom of the not-hole. A very small gap, not even wide enough for a finger. But wide enough for smoke. Out of pure curiosity, the spirit pokes at the space, watching her fingers disperse and slip out into the open air. If she pushes far enough, she can see her hand begin to reform outside. She can’t help but wonder how far she can take this.

Zazzalil saw a lot of smoke in her lifetime. What she  _ never  _ saw was smoke that falls. So, now being comprised entirely of smoke, she has no qualms about jumping out of a window.

To the smoke’s credit, she falls a  _ bit  _ slower than she would have if she was still flesh and bone. But that bit is only just big enough to be noticeably, annoyingly small. She manages to get out a few swears before her body goes entirely numb as she hits the ground and disperses into a cloud against the pavement with a soft  _ poof. _

The spirit gasps in a deep breath as she sits up, feeling returning to her limbs as the smoke hurriedly condenses back into a figure.  _ That  _ is going to need some getting used to. She briefly looks around for her spear when she realises it’s not tucked into her belt, but soon remembers that she left it under that little wooden structure. The structure which - along with the only people she has  _ some  _ familiarity with - is now a considerable distance above her. Zazzalil was always a good climber; as a scrawny little kid she was the only one small enough to navigate the densest branches and light enough to traverse the more delicate limbs, and so ever since childhood she would usually be the one to be sent up the fruit trees. She’d dabbled in rock climbing too. But now, faced with a near flat wall and smokey hands, she’s not so sure.

Her fingers don’t remain…  _ entirely  _ solid when she reaches up and attempts to get a grip on two of the neatly-shaped stones, but remain in place when she hesitantly puts some weight on them. Toes successfully lifted an inch off the ground, Zazzalil commits to the idea. Time to attempt her first climb in a few million years.

The handholds are less than ideal, but her noticeable decrease in bodyweight makes up for that difficulty. Lifting smoke is markedly easier than lifting flesh and bone, and definitely easier than lifting a pebble. She peers into each window as she passes. Not Paul and Emma, not Paul and Emma, not Paul and Emma… there they are. Still sat together. Zazzalil watches them for a moment, then glances up. She’s near the top of whatever it is she’s climbing now. It wouldn’t hurt to keep going and have a look around.

She soon manages to scramble onto the roof. It’s strange to be so high up without being perched on a tree limb, but she takes a seat at the edge nonetheless. With her experience the height doesn’t bother her. Those  _ things  _ still roaming around the streets, however, definitely make her nervous. How are people wandering around so calmly with huge, snarling creatures dashing back and forth? Don’t they know the danger they’re putting themselves in? The smoke swirls faster through her body just thinking about it.

But as she shuffles back from the edge and takes a deep breath, she’s able to clear her mind a little. The smoke calms as she takes a moment to think it through, and soon the solution occurs to her. Taming. Of course it’s taming. She and Keeri managed to raise a couple of wolf pups, it stands to reason that however long it’s been since then was enough time to domesticate…  _ whatever  _ those things are. The spirit watches a few feathers float by on the wind as she thinks about it, a small smile in her face. It’s nice to know that at least one of her ideas caught on.

With this new perspective in mind, Zazzalil peers over the edge again. She spends a while just looking down at those creatures and their muticoloured turtle-like shells, observing their behaviour, watching how the people below interact with them. They are, in a word, baffling - at least, they are for someone with no knowledge of technology past stone age tools. But by the time darkness is beginning to fall, she’s pretty sure she’s got it all figured out. After climbing down to get a closer look, she realises that the creatures aren’t creatures at all, but some sort of contraptions that have merely been  _ constructed  _ of turtle shells, perhaps animated by the same spellcraft placed on the tablet in the cave. But that’s not to say she was wrong about taming. There are tame animals too, weird-looking coyote-ish, wolf-ish things that people parade around on colourful twine. The people are perhaps the most confusing element of it all, walking around with their ears covered or talking to little stone tablets and carrying and wearing all sorts of strange things. She has no qualms about leaving the incomprehensible street as night approaches and clambering back up to the window, taking a deep breath before headbutting the crack of space and tumbling through onto the carpet on the other side, thankfully remaining solid upon impact this time. She sits up as Paul gently rubs Emma’s shoulder.

“You awake, Em?” he mumbles. They’re still sat together, but now with what looks to be the remains of a meal on the floor beside them.

“No,” comes the groggy reply. The man smiles.

“I gotta go, we’ve both got work tomorrow.”

“God, fuck that.”

Zazzalil can’t help but agree with Emma there. She watches as Paul takes a few select items from his pack and pulls on his shoes as Emma moves the leftovers. The two share a kiss and a few parting words, then the man pulls open a panel in the wall - the same one they entered through - and leaves. The woman yawns before heading back to the other side of the cave, but Zazzalil isn’t focused on her right now. Instead, she returns to that wooden structure to recover her weapon. The spear is still smoldering gently on the floor, emitting a soft glow. A glow which is helpful when Emma returns and hits a few irregularities in the otherwise smooth wall, plunging the area into darkness.

The embers of her spear aren’t the world’s greatest torch, but Zazzalil is able to get at least a vague impression of her surroundings by holding it up to various artifacts as she wanders around. There’s countless contraptions she couldn’t even  _ begin _ to guess the function of, but she supposes that’s a good thing. Humanity has progressed, just like she’d always hoped they would. She finds paintings on the walls or propped up on surfaces. Many of them are incredibly lifelike, portraits of smiling people that make her heart hurt thinking of what she’s left behind. And then there’s Emma herself.

The woman is wrapped in a thick blanket, fast asleep with no worries of who’s keeping watch or who’s keeping her warm. It seems impossible to the spirit, but maybe she doesn’t  _ have  _ to worry. Maybe, completely alone in this cave, Emma is safer and warmer than Zazzalil ever was. The spirit smiles to herself in the darkness. There’s a hint of jealousy there, but there’s no point dwelling on that. Where would jealousy get her? Insead she focuses on the pride. The overwhelming pride that people have moved forward, that invention and curiosity have taken them to a place where this small woman can sleep alone in a cave, safe and warm with no worries.

But regardless of what humanity has achieved, Zazzalil comes from a time where a night alone could be a death sentence. So, even if it’s unnecessary, the spirit hops back onto that wooden structure and sits with her spear across her lap, watching the panel that covers the cave entrance as Emma sleeps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading :)


End file.
